Regrets, Unspoken
by English Toffee
Summary: Margaret Thatcher relfects on Fraser, her job, and whether she really made the right choice. PG for very mild language. Minor revisions have been made.


Disclaimer: Not mine.

oO0Oo

The sun was too bright.

It glared at her accusingly, rendering her blind even through half-closed lids, and hit the corner of her right cheekbone with its harsh light, carefully picking out the shadows and fine lines of her face with cool precision.

Squinting, she pulled the sun visor of her rental car down with an irritable motion. She didn't need to be reminded of her appearance.

_Pale and haggard, both inside and out._

She sighed.

It _had _been the right choice to leave Chicago. That job had drained something from her in a way that no other job—not even the grunt work from her early days—had. Better to return to Ottawa and find a position in some remote town. Take time off. Then she could work on forgetting him.

_Fraser. _

The glare of asphalt caused her eyes to prickle and she blinked quickly.

_Where was he now?_

She pushed that thought away firmly. It doesn't matter. It's over. Whatever happened—

Or didn't 

It's over.

Still…

When she closed her eyes she could almost feel his hand gently cupping her cheek, running a callused thumb over the salty track of her unshed tears. She saw him smiling in that quiet way of his, but his eyes were sad and she wished…

Well, Never mind.

"Why, sir?" he'd asked, from just outside her door, and they both knew what he was talking about.

She had been in the middle of packing and she bent over to tape the last box, relieved to see that her hands were steady and sure. Just as relieved, too, that her voice was light and firm and distant when she finally spoke.

"A change, Constable. This city—" she cleared her throat. "Well, both Deputy Commissioner Jones and myself feel that there is more need…that I can do more back in Canada."

"Ah."

There was an awkward pause and she turned to inspect her desk one last time, although they both knew that she had packed everything.

"Permission to speak, sir?" Hesitant as always.

"Granted." She didn't look up.

"Well, with all due respect sir…that is…this doesn't perchance have anything to do with the extra paperwork produced as a result of my activities with detective Vecchio…I mean the loss of time that could otherwise be used…ah…"

Biting back a smile, she looked up at last. "Spit it out, Constable."

"What I mean is, were we responsible for your transfer?"

Was that guilt in his voice? _Oh Benny. _

Ruefully, she shook her head. "Fraser, I'm sure you are aware that I'm not…ah…exactly well-liked by everyone."

He shifted his feet and didn't reply.

"Not that there were any complaints, of course, but word filtered back." Her voice was carefully neutral, but the news from Ottawa had stung.

_I had to be cold. Why couldn't they see? A male-dominated profession, and it's the goddamn police force—all the Queen's men. Where did that leave me? Working extra shifts, sucking up, dealing with jerks like Cloutier. And in the end? _

She shrugged and hoisted a box into her arms. "They said I was under too much pressure, that the city was too much of a shock for me."

_All those years and I'm still a delicate little lady officer. _

He stepped forward to help with the load but she gestured a refusal and he stood back to let her pass instead.

"You were better liked than you think."

What did that mean? She glanced over quickly, but his face was empty of any expression but polite concern. She told herself it didn't matter.

"Thank you."

He nodded, and she noticed that he went and picked up a second box, despite her request.

She thought of saying something, but then again, he no longer worked for her, and if he wished to help on his own time she wasn't going to stop him.

In silence they carried what few possessions she had kept in her office outside. They stood in the street for a moment, under the watchful, motionless guard of some other Constable, and she could think of a thousand last things to say but not one that she really meant, so they didn't speak.

And then he had opened his mouth, and her heart stopped beating for just a second, but it was only to ask which car was hers, and she cocked her head at the ugly, blue Toyota that she had rented for the drive, having already sold her own so that there would be no ties to this place.

They loaded the boxes into her trunk, and then, having nothing left to prolong her stay, she turned to look at him one last time, trying desperately to burn every inch of skin and hair and kindness into her memory because she knew she wasn't coming back.

She tried to be discreet, but he must have known because he stood there for a minute, as if on guard duty himself, hands behind his back, giving her the respect her title said she deserved.

A lump formed in her throat, but she had been an inspector for too long and when she went to say some of what she had felt for the past years it wouldn't come out.

"Well, goodbye," she smiled awkwardly. She wasn't his boss anymore.

"Goodbye, ma'am," he said softly, and might have said more (or was that only her imagination?) but then Detective Vecchio—or the other one, what's-his-name—arrived, wanting to go for lunch. And then it was too late, and she was in the driver's seat and smiling a wan smile through the grimy glass as she drove away.

Was there ever any chance for the two of them?

Maybe it was better not to have found out, although deep down she knew that was the easy answer.

_I just wish…_

That he had stopped her. Said that he understood why she had pushed him away. Been willing to look beneath that for the real her.

She knew he was one in a million.

_You blew it, Margaret Thatcher. _

Slowing slightly, she bent to rummage around for a tissue.

The sun was making her eyes water.

oO0Oo

Review if you like. Thank you kindly.


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